


deeper than all roses

by OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dark Crowley (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Human AU, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranoia, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Crowley, Stalking, let's play a game of: is Aziraphale paranoid or is there something really wrong with Crowley?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23199199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: There's a tall, dark, and handsome young man that's been frequenting Mr. Fell's bookshop for a while now, and he seems far more interested in in flirting and bantering with him than looking to purchase a book. Mr. Fell's friends tell him that the man's head-over-heels, trying so-very hard to win him over with dinners and rare first editions to add to his collection.Mr. Fell laughs it off; why would a pretty young thing like that be interested in a fussy, old book seller? But they'd hush him for putting himself down, even though Mr. Fell knows that deep down, they'd probably agree.But what they don't know is that Mr. Fell always makes sure at least one other person is in the room with him when Mr. Crowley comes by; that he's taken to hailing taxis instead of walking home at night; that he never chooses a restaurant in an unfamiliar part of town and never goes back to Mr. Crowley's apartment after dinner.There's something about Mr. Crowley that makes him uncomfortable; something that doesn't feel right at all.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 135
Kudos: 241





	1. Prologue: Wolf's Bane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadwendigo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadwendigo/gifts).



> Might I offer you an AU during these trying times? 
> 
> For sadwendigo, who wanted something…a little darker.

* * *

_or which i cannot touch because they are too near_

* * *

There's a tall, dark, handsome young man that's been frequenting Mr. Fell’s bookshop for a while now.

Anathema shared a grin with a distracted Newt as Mr. Crowley sauntered inside, parking his “death-trap” of a Bentley (as Mr. Fell mildly called it) with the carelessness to take up two spaces, thus relieving Mr. Fell of at least one customer that afternoon.

He barely gave them a glance, frown already set in place at the notion that he wouldn’t have Mr. Fell’s sole attentions today, but that only made the pair grin amongst themselves.

“Mr. Crowley—is that you?” Mr. Fell’s soft voice called from somewhere deep within the maw of his shop, Mr. Crowley's presence likely given away by the familiar, telltale sounds of reckless driving outside.

Behind his sunglasses, they just knew he was rolling his eyes. “Just _Crowley_ , angel—” The endearment caused Newt to chuckle and in turn, caused Anathema to elbow him right in the ribs.

Mr. Fell peaked his head out from behind a shelf, reading glasses perched on his nose, likely interrupted from yet another afternoon of ignoring his customers and sneaking off into the back to read. Terrible business operations, but at the very least, Mr. Fell was beginning to open his shop at more appropriate hours of the day.

And watching the two gentlemen dance around each other as part of their routine, it was hardly a mystery as to why.

Luckily for Mr. Crowley, he seemed to be far more interested in in flirting and bantering with Mr. Fell than actually looking to purchase something. Or, at least Mr. Crowley was far more interested in tempting Mr. Fell to dinner and showering him with little gifts while Mr. Fell’s face turned a funny color. “Got you something,” he offered with a lazy grin. 

There was a spark of delight in Mr. Fell’s eyes at the book-shaped package in Mr. Crowley’s hands. “Oh, my dear…you shouldn’t have!” 

“Nonsense,” Mr. Crowley scoffed, the corners of his lips tugging upwards at the sight of Mr. Fell fawning over the newest addition to his collection. “Saw it in some shop or other gathering dust; I thought it might as well be gathering dust with your other books for company.”

“Well,” and _there_ that smile was; the very one that likely ensnared Mr. Crowley from the start. “Thank you, Mister—”

“ _Just_ Crowley—”

“Crowley,” Mr. Fell amended.

“You can thank me properly later tonight,” Mr. Crowley purred, relishing in the lovely rose that bloomed across Mr. Fell’s cheeks. “Dinner?”

The observing pair glance at each other. Newt and Anathema had their own plans with Mr. Fell that night, as they had every year after The Accident, but they’d gladly reschedule if it meant further development in his budding—whatever it was—with Mr. Crowley.

Development that Mr. Fell seemed quite content to self-sabotage. “Oh, I’m sorry dear. I have plans this evening—” The bookseller paused, raising a brow upon catching sight of the couple behind Mr. Crowley, wildly gesticulating at him and fervidly disagreeing with everything that came out of his mouth.

 _Very well, then_.

“Never mind!” Mr. Crowley perked up immediately at that. “Plans seemed to have cancelled. I’m all yours.” 

Fulfilling his temptation, Mr. Crowley gave a winning smile that sent silent cheers erupting behind him; Mr. Fell tried his damnest to ignore them. 

“I can come by around 7:30?” he proposed, not for the first time. Mr. Crowley hasn’t yet been successful in picking him up and dropping him off like a proper date, but Newt thought he was getting there.

Mr. Fell shook his head reassuringly. “Oh, it’s not a problem!” The pair stifled a groan in disappointment. “I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way…”

And Anathema’s been waiting on the day that they get to see Mr. Fell dropped off, stumbling out of Mr. Crowley’s car bright and early in the morning, wearing the same clothes as the day before.

It’s been same song and dance for months now. A suitor might have taken Mr. Fell’s bashfulness as a definitive _Not Interested_ , but fortunately, Mr. Crowley proved himself the patient type. Not only that, but neither Anathema nor Newt were exactly privy to the “conversations” that went on during dinner.

Perhaps Mr. Fell was a lot bolder than he let on. Something had to keep Mr. Crowley coming back, after all.

Satisfied with the fact that he had the bookseller all to himself later, Mr. Crowley bade him farewell with a few furtive words that left Mr. Fell’s face in that same, funny color. “I’m looking forward to spending time with you this evening,” Newt happened to catch at the tail-end of the conversation. 

“Likewise, Crowley…” Mr. Fell trailed off, a tiny, nervous smile on his face that made Anathema dig her nails into Newt’s arm to stop herself from screaming.

(All parties within the vicinity ignored the small yelp from Newt that followed.)

Mr. Crowley exited the shop with his trademark saunter and only then did the pair look over to Mr. Fell with matching, knowing grins.

“What?” Mr. Fell asked, genuinely befuddled. “Did you not want me to cancel tonight?”

 _He had to be doing this on purpose,_ Anathema thought with equal amounts of exasperation and equal amounts of affection. “Mr. Fell, no! It’s fine!”

“Yeah, you should enjoy your date with Mr. Crowley,” Newt added blithely, oblivious to the accusation.

“Oh, hush now,” he chided, face reddening. “It’s nothing like that.”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “Mr. Fell, that man has been chatting you up for the past few months now and has been buying you dinner for weeks.”

“We’re getting to be good friends, that’s all—” he started, fiddling with the latest first edition Mr. Crowley gifted him. He gave an absentminded laugh at the unimpressed look on both of their faces. “Besides, why would a pretty, young thing like that be interested in a fussy, old bookseller?”

“Because this fussy, old bookseller is a literal angel on earth?” Newt offered, earning him yet _another_ elbow to his ribs.

“That’s very sweet of you, Newt,” Mr. Fell muttered dryly. 

“Seriously, Mr. Fell. You’re wonderful—don’t put yourself down like that!” Anathema scolded. “And Mr. Crowley is _genuinely_ interested. He wouldn’t be courting you like a bird if he weren’t.”

Mr. Fell nearly dropped the collection of poems in his hands, sputtering fantastically. “You two are being ridiculous.”

“But it’s true! Mr. Crowley’s head-over-heels for you, Mr. Fell,” Newt protested.

Anathema shook her head in pity. “And he’s trying so hard to win you over,” she playfully mourned.

“All right, enough of that,” Mr. Fell asserted with a flat tone. “I’ll hear no more of this matter from you two, is that clear?” The pair shared a look, questioning if they’d just been chastised like children. Looking back at the stern expression Mr. Fell wore, they agreed that indeed they were, and relented.

It was near-impossible to steer Mr. Fell towards something he was vehemently against. They only hoped that Mr. Crowley had patience to spare.

Because really, they only wanted him to be happy and their hope was that Mr. Crowley would be able to help with that.

Pleased that the state of his love-life was no longer (verbally) scrutinized, Mr. Fell clasped his hands together with a relieved smile. “Now then, instead of dinner, why don’t we go out for lunch instead, hm?”

There was a small chorus of agreement to that.

Though the conversation was far from over, there was really no helping it once Mr. Fell put his foot down; if the man wanted to avoid discussing Mr. Crowley (and his feelings pertaining to him) like the plague, then there was no stopping him. Certainly, neither of them wanted to push the issue past what Mr. Fell was comfortable with, and just like Mr. Crowley, neither of them wanted to rush things and possibly spook Mr. Fell away from what was potentially the makings of a sweet romance. Because try as Mr. Fell might in denying it, the evidence was as clear as day:

Mr. Crowley wanted his heart and he was willing to play Mr. Fell's game to get it. 

* * *

_your slightest look easily will unclose me_

* * *

Mr. Fell fancied himself a creature of habit. He knew what he liked and settled into a routine that left him quite pleased and quite predictable.

He liked his shop quiet, liked his books untouched, liked the still night air as he meandered home after closing, and liked the simple joy of anticipating and trying out a new restaurant, only to return to his tried and true favorites the next day. It wasn’t a lavish or exciting lifestyle by any means, but he was truly happy and set in his ways: content, comfortable, and complacent.

(But there was something…off, something tugging and twisting at his thoughts as of late.)

Mr. Fell fancied himself a calm, composed, and collected fellow. He rarely jumped on the bull’s back of impulse (unless there were crêpes involved—but as he told Newt, that was a story for another time), rarely foregoing meticulous logic for careless instinct. There was a rhyme and reason for everything, ineffable as the universe’s plans may be.

(But that didn’t explain what he was feeling.)

Mr. Fell fancied himself all these things and Anathema and Newt would agree after years of friendship with the “fussy, old bookseller.”

To his friends, he was a peculiar man with peculiar tastes and a peculiar style and a peculiar personality, and they delighted in his eccentricities. He was a man who often lost hours at a time with his nose buried in a novel only to realize he had forgotten to open his shop the entire day, a man who dressed like a Victorian dandy and acted the part, much to the chagrin of this mad, modern world, a man who had impossibly caught the eye of who Anathema called his “tall, dark, and handsome young man.”

( _Honestly._ Aziraphale was only a year or two older than Anthony.)

To his friends, he was Mr. Aziraphale Zacharias Fell, unfortunately named and unfortunately oblivious to the wooing and romancing of the very rich, very handsome, very _patient_ stranger called Anthony J. Crowley.

( _Crowley,_ he had said when Aziraphale asked his name. _Just Crowley is fine_.)

Anathema fancied herself a little matchmaker for the two and Aziraphale himself overheard her giving helpful tidbits of information to Mr. Crowley: his favorite authors, his favorite desserts, his favorite plays, all of which Mr. Crowley took in stride and amusement.

How droll.

For all hers and Newt’s sweet and avid encouragement, in reality, Aziraphale’s hesitancy had little to do with mild social anxiety and matters of self-image and self-esteem, and even less to do with archaic, snail-paced courtship ideals from bygone eras. His friends had the best intentions, they really did.

But that did little to stave off the air of something _amiss_. Like tiny ripples in still water, an odd creaking in the floor at night, a phantom touch to the arm when alone in an empty room, things that could have been easily dismissed by imagination, natural phenomena, and just good old-fashioned _paranoia—_

(But they weren’t.)

For all their best intentions, they didn’t know that he’d taken to opening his shop at regular hours, eyes open and hoping for a stray customer or three to flit through his shop just as Mr. Crowley pulled up on his hearse-black Bentley outside. They didn’t know that he’d taken to hailing taxis with their musty air-conditioned back seats instead of his lonesome, leisurely strolls at night. They didn’t know that for all the fine eateries Mr. Crowley offered for their wining and dining, Mr. Fell never ventured out to a restaurant in an unfamiliar part of town.

And he never _once_ went back to Mr. Crowley’s apartment afterwards.

It was—foolish. _Ridiculous_. Aziraphale knew that.

But that did nothing to calm his racing heart from the stone-drop of dread (overflowing, drowning) whenever Mr. Crowley entered his shop, lips always, _always_ set to a frown when another person was within its walls, did nothing to soothe the feeling of eyes tracking his every movement when walking down the streets past dark, did nothing to cleanse the anxiety on his tongue whenever Mr. Crowley offered him a drink of something expensive, something extravagant, something _exquisite_ back at his flat, eyes hungry, mouth curved to a furtive, elegant smile—

(—beckoning, calling, a lure, a snare, a _trap_ —)

It didn’t change the fact that Aziraphale knew something was _off_ about Mr. Crowley and he had no rhyme or reason for it.

Marrow-deep, atom-etched, and instinct-fueled, his presence set apprehension alight to Aziraphale’s nerves. For the life of him—he couldn’t understand _why_. Aziraphale had never experienced anything like this not-quite-fear, looming over him, engulfing the air with the faintest churnings of unease, casting monstrous shadows behind him no matter how close he stood to the light.

But surely, Mr. Crowley didn’t _scare_ him. He was fine company, offered interesting conversation, and gave him a lovely time despite the unnerving chills that raced down Aziraphale’s spine whenever the man offered his arm, the dizzying disquiet that danced down his veins at every smile Mr. Crowley gave. He wasn’t sure if calling it _fear_ was justified. Aziraphale, in his tranquil, cautious life, had never reason to experience or trigger such a penetrating response first-hand.

That was until the night he heard glass breaking, a door slamming open at the back of his shop, and moments later, found a knife held to his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “beware”
> 
> lines and title are from e e cummings’s _“somewhere i have never travelled”_
> 
> I must admit, it wasn’t cummings that inspired this, though future themes will align with the poem. It was Post Malone and Swae Lee’s _Sunflower_ did me in with the verse “I think your love would be too much.” 
> 
> Let me know what you think~


	2. Catchfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale is cared for by Crowley and that may or may not have been the best decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I promise I didn't die. Not yet anyways.

* * *

_you always open petal by petal_

* * *

When Aziraphale awoke, it was to a throbbing headache and numb limbs. One by one, his senses stirred and his body drowsily sifted through the information to gather an adequate read on the situation: for one, the sheets were stiff, the mattress was too firm, and the stale atmosphere about him evoked no impression of the aromas of afternoon tea and the dust of old books.

Right. Definitely not his home.

Definitely not his bookshop.

What he did register was the smell of sterile air and faint beeps and buzzes whirring from somewhere within the room.

“Mister Fell!”

He didn’t even know he’d attempted to rise from his position, propping up clumsily like a sad puppet on the bed until gentle hands eased him back down again. His eyes blinked open to the sight of a familiar face within an unfamiliar room. Then the pain hit him all at once, searing and red-hot at his neck and dull, throbbing at his ribs. Aziraphale let out a whimper and collapsed back on the bed, mind reeling and breaths coming out in short staccatos as panic surged through him.

“Mister Fell, take it easy! I’ll go call your nurse!”

“ _Newt_ …” Aziraphale gasped, name and voice finally connecting in his pain-addled brain while dots of black swarmed his vision. “What happened?” he managed to croak out. Memories floated by, wispy little things sending flashes of terror and fear through him as he heaved pathetically on the bed. They came to him in pieces: he remembered a crash, a blade, a slice of pain, and then—nothing. Aziraphale felt nausea pulse through him at the revelation of his situation, a cold chill gripping at his insides.

Voices flooded the room, footsteps following in tow. A machine whirred to life and something warm trickled into his blood.

“I’m sorry, are you a family member?”

Aziraphale didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Newt began fumbling. “Uh, no, I’m just friend but—”

“Who is his emergency contact?”

Aziraphale attempted some kind of verbal response but anything came out of his dried, raspy throat could barely be considered human. Even then, not even Aziraphale himself had an answer to that, and an echoing pit ripped itself open from old wounds.

He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his relatives for years. Before, Aziraphale had found solace in solitude—and that was fine with him. He’d no time to dally on keeping people in his life that had no interest in wanting him in theirs.

“Was there anyone with him when he was admitted?”

“Oh!—”

He—he wasn’t completely alone. He had his—friends. Newt, Anathema, Madame Tracy—

_“Mister Crowley was the one who brought him in!”_

Something—something like panic seized up in his throat. It might have been; the incessant bleating of a monitor as his pulse hammered in his ears was a fairly good indicator. It became harder to breathe and a tremor snaked its way down his spine as a terrible, _horrific_ thought began to take form, take hold—

_Was he—had he—no…no he couldn’t have—_

Because _Crowley_ had _been_ there, had been the one to _find_ him somehow and called the ambulance—but even the mere mention of his name made something anxiously stir in his gut. It was a preposterous— _wretched—_ thought. But what if it wasn’t? What if _this_ what every warning he’d experienced for months had been leading up to?

But all those ponderings ceased with more whirring, the dizzying warmth in his blood soothing his tensions and quieting the erratic alarms from the machine beside him.

All things seemed to cease after that.

* * *

When Aziraphale awoke, he knew exactly where he was.

“Hey,” a voice called.

But perhaps, not exactly who was with him.

Aziraphale blinked once, twice, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he squinted against the muted light filtering through the window. When his eyes found focus, he made out a figure in black and red, red hair. The memories that followed didn’t so much as crash against him but ebb towards the shores of his conscious. He recognized him, of course.

The stirrings of not-quite-fear uneasily settling in his stomach was a dead giveaway in the wake of Crowley’s mirthless smile. “Welcome back, angel.”

He opened his mouth, finding it desert-dry and difficult to speak. “Mister...”

Crowley scoffed, reaching to a bedside tray. “Not that again,” he groused with a teasing grin as he handed Aziraphale a cup of water. “Didn’t get hit on the head too, did you?”

He didn’t know. His head did hurt, however. Nevertheless, Aziraphale drank greedily, the rawness in his throat easing with every gulp. When it emptied, Aziraphale found Crowley’s waiting hand reaching for the cup. “It certainly feels like it, dear,” he rasped, relenting as Crowley poured him another drink. He watched with bleary eyes, the same sensation of unease washing over him before he caught himself.

This was— _ridiculous_.

Crowley _saved_ him for god’s sake! He was here in the hospital, checking up on him like any good man would. Crowley had never given him _any_ reason to doubt his intentions, never given him _any_ reason to justify this wretched _apprehension_ Aziraphale felt for him.

(At least not yet.)

Still, Aziraphale watched him, a bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes as he went straight for the throat, the meat of the matter. “What happened?”

Those same eyes watched as Crowley’s hands trembled every-so-slightly as he poured from the jug. “I…I thought you stood me up.” Crowley gave a bitter chuckle, smile tentative and fragile. “But then I realized you could have just as easily forgotten the time, poring over that old book I got you and—”

The man seemed to stumble for words, stumble for breath. “And what, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, gently, imploringly.

He gave a sharp inhale and turned to Aziraphale with lips drawn to a tight-lipped line, something despairing and tortured in his eyes as he didn’t quite look Aziraphale in his. He knew he was looking at the scar: the ragged line that ran laterally from his neck to his collarbone.

Crowley wrenched away from the sight of it as Aziraphale self-consciously brought a hand over the stitches. “I found the lights on. In your shop. Shelves knocked over. Your books tossed around.” He took a shuddering breath. “And you were on the floor. Bleeding. Unconscious.” He shivered at the memory and Aziraphale felt a pang of sympathy amid the horror of his words. Was the attack really so _violent_? And how did Aziraphale survive? “They told me that luckily the wounds weren’t that deep but…” Crowley swallowed a gasp, a sob. “ _God_ it scared me, Aziraphale. I thought—”

“Shhh…it’s all right dear,” Aziraphale soothed, running the palm of his hands over the other’s arm. “I’m here.”

Crowley gave a sharp, biting laugh at that, but pressed against the reassuring contact nevertheless. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you, you know.”

“Oh, there’ll be no need!” he shushed despite the flat, disbelieving look Crowley sent his way. He covered Crowley’s hand with his own, startling ever-so-slightly when the other man laced their fingers together. He looked at how their hands joined, fingers intertwined, and felt something akin to nausea rise to his throat. He swallowed it back down immediately. “Crowley, I’m so sorry about all this… and especially for worrying you so.”

The hand in his tightened.

(It was not a warm gesture of reassurance.)

“Is it so wrong of me to want to take care of you?” he murmured, tenderly, almost to himself. “Is it really _so_ wrong to want you safe?” he demanded with quiet agony, and a part of Aziraphale immediately wanted to comfort him, reaffirm to him again and again that it’s all right—that despite what happened, Aziraphale was still here, safe and sound, and in the end, that was what mattered, right?

(Another, baser part of Aziraphale wanted to wrench away from him and cover as much distance between them as possible.)

Turning to Aziraphale, Crowley gave a soft, wistful look that sent Aziraphale’s heart racing. “You never have to apologize about that, angel.”

He was being sincere. And for some reason, that frightened Aziraphale like nothing else. He cursed silently as the telltale monitors gave him away immediately, but all Crowley did was fight back a smile. A quiet, cruel part of Aziraphale mildly wondered if he would still be smiling if he knew just why his heart jumped around him.

Instead, Aziraphale gave a swallow, feebly asking, redirecting, “Is there any word on…”

Crowley’s face darkened for a second—just a second—before he looked back to Aziraphale apologetically. “The investigation’s still open.” The knots wounding themselves over and over again in his stomach tightened. “Whoever it was made off with a rather large amount of your collection.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale gave a breathless _Ah_ , forcing something down before the despair had a chance to vomit it back up again. “They’re just things, dear.” He didn’t know whether it was a cry or a scream. “Crowley?”

He was at attention, ever-vigilant at Aziraphale’s side, hand refusing to let go even as Aziraphale’s fingers went limp and numb from the ice coursing through his veins. “Yeah, angel?”

“I…” And Crowley—oh, _Crowley_. He looked so hopeful, so eager to jump to Aziraphale’s rescue, to give him comfort and kindness that Aziraphale’s not sure he deserved with how every look, every _touch_ they share has his instincts _screaming_ at him to _get away._ “Thank you,” Aziraphale settled. “For finding me, for _saving_ me—”

“Angel—” he breathed, the fondness, the affection, and _something_ deeper, _darker_ , in his voice making Aziraphale shudder. “Of course I would. I…” His other hand caught Aziraphale’s, warm, so very warm against his own pale palms. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

Aziraphale was sure it would burn him, _brand_ him, if Crowley didn’t let go.

“Well, thankfully we don’t have to find out.” He gave an uneasy chuckle, refusing to meet Crowley’s lovely, poisonous eyes. “But you’ll see. I’ll be right as rain before you know it.” He expected a scoff of disbelief, a noise of protest, a lecture on the other’s tongue— but all Crowley gave was a smile, not quite believing him, but patient.

Always patient. A desert awaiting a storm.

* * *

_i do not know what it is about you that closes_

_and opens;_

* * *

In London, when it rained—it poured.

And Aziraphale hadn’t slept in a week.

Well, to be more precise, he hadn’t _properly_ slept in a week. His shop was a crime scene, it needed repairs on top of that, and his main source of income was thrashed and strewn about in a pitiful clutter of torn pages and smashed shelves with insurance refusing to honor the estimated prices for his collection—

And he couldn’t slip into slumber without the sound of breaking glass startling him, the phantom feeling of the slice of a sharp blade against his flesh, the blooming pain on his back and skull as he relived that same night over and over again.

Anathema and Newt came over to keep him company as often as they could, Anathema even offering him a spot on their couch (though Newt argued that the old thing would probably make it even harder for Aziraphale to get a good night’s rest). Still, as sweet as the offer was and as grateful as Aziraphale felt for his friends, he didn’t want to burden them like that. They were a young couple, newly engaged and at the prime of their lives—

He didn’t want to intrude. To them, he was _Mister Fell—_ and he could take care of himself.

(And it wasn’t just because Aziraphale had seen and sat on said couch and yes, Newt was not incorrect in his assumptions.)

But that wasn’t completely why he was here, driven to the brink of a psychotic break and somehow sustaining consciousness at a grand total of forty minutes of sleep last night.

He raised his hand to knock and startled when the door swung open.

Aziraphale casted his eyes to the floor, immediately self-conscious and feeling rather foolish all of a sudden. “I’m so terribly sorry to bother you with—”

“No, angel.” Crowley hushed, stepping aside and opening the door wider. “Like I said, it’s not a problem. I offered, after all.”

What brought him here, standing right outside of Crowley’s Mayfair flat, an overnight bag over his shoulders, in a _similar_ position to what he had been adamantly against for the past few months, was something else entirely.

_You look dead on your feet, angel._

_Rest a while, come now, don’t be shy._

_My door is always open. Just say the word._

**_Please,_ ** _let me take care of you._

Aziraphale found himself ushered inside, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion crash against him as Crowley supported him by the arm. “I want you to be here,” Crowley assured once more. “I _want_ to take care of you.”

A part of him protested— Crowley had already done so much. “But…”

“No buts.” His mouth was set to a stern frown and Aziraphale found himself more and more reluctant to wave off his assistance as his leaden limbs dragged him forward. “Come upstairs, the guest bedroom is right here.”

Goodness, what an _awful_ person he must be to think of accepting Crowley’s well-meaning invitations as a last resort. The dear thing only wanted his health and sanity intact. He came by every day now, offering his home ~~his bed~~ to Aziraphale in this trying time, and Aziraphale—

(—had something to prove to himself.)

He was nearing the end of his rope and the tenuous fibers were beginning to fray. He wanted to get through this, so _desperately_ wanted to move on from that night without becoming a burden to his friends who’ve shown him more love and affection that he had throughout most of his childhood and adult life.

But maybe—maybe Aziraphale was beginning to believe that he had more trouble accepting kindness. Compassion. Maybe even _love_ more than others. He’d been given so little—he expected just as much. Maybe he had to learn to trust a little bit more, allow himself to be taken care of, and ignore that not-quite fear coiling in his gut every time Crowley showed up at his door.

* * *

And care for him Crowley did.

He drew Aziraphale a hot bath, ordered them both a nice meal in, and stayed with Aziraphale until the colors dimmed and the sounds grew distant before Aziraphale could give a proper voice of thanks. That night, Aziraphale slipped into exhausted slumber in an expansive bed with high-thread count sheets; the dreams were silent and black, devoid of memories, devoid of any rational thought. What remained were the receding tides of a dimly lit room and an engulfing maw of nothingness to greet him.

And, the last thought in the back of his mind, _Crowley_.

Patient, patient Crowley.

Aziraphale slept on and off for the next day or two after that and whenever he awoke, Crowley was never far from his side. It was reassuring and more and more, Crowley’s perpetual presence and steadfast surveillance soothed him back to sleep.

Some days later, Aziraphale woke to the sun spilling light into the room through a drawn curtain and Crowley with an offer to lunch. Blearily, Aziraphale accepted and fought long and hard not to roll over at the brightness of Crowley’s smile.

(He took him to get sushi. Aziraphale liked sushi. And Aziraphale was beginning to accept that Crowley liked Aziraphale too.)

They had a late lunch and an even later dinner, but it was leagues better than the hours where exhaustion had even robbed Aziraphale of his appetite.

Then one morning, Aziraphale awoke feeling more human than he’d had in days, maybe even weeks. Crowley caught on to this quickly and suggested an outing. Aziraphale absentmindedly nodded, thinking it would be nice to settle back into his old routine.

This time—with Crowley by his side.

They took a walk through St. James park together, Crowley sitting next to him on his favorite bench as Aziraphale fed the familiar ducks; Crowley even bought him a vanilla cone and himself an ice lolly as they spent time in each other’s company. Crowley always had an entertaining tale to tell and Aziraphale could spend hours discussing and dissecting his favorite works. They talked idly about this and that until hours had passed and a familiarity set in that was as addicting as it was hard to keep distance.

And as _paranoid_ as Aziraphale might be—he was only human.

It was only human to swoon at least a _little_ at Crowley treating him to a dinner at the Ritz that evening. Swoon at the gentle swell of music in the background and the way Crowley knew his favorite dishes and exactly what wines to pair with them. Swoon at how he knew that Aziraphale was caught between two desserts and so ordered one for himself and the other for him with every intention of giving it to Aziraphale.

And—maybe it _wasn’t_ the chills of apprehension that trilled down his spine—perhaps it _was_ anxiety and even a little bit of _excitement_ that raced across his nerves when Crowley smiled at him like he was the only one in the room, held his hand like he was something precious, gazed at him like a feast to be devoured.

So yes, much to Anathema’s certain glee and Newton’s certain relief, Aziraphale was feeling thoroughly romanced at every kind gesture, every thorough and thoughtful gift and outing.

Even if it _was_ in the aftermath of one of the most traumatizing nights of his life.

And Crowley—Crowley was proving himself to be _so,_ very sweet to him throughout all this.

Aziraphale knew Crowley needlessly felt he was to blame for the attack; at the very least, he felt tortured by not being there in time to stop it. He had even caught him, once or twice, staring. Staring at the scar on his neck, where the blade has torn through his very flesh. There’d be a flash of pain, of guilt, of _something else entirely_ before Crowley would reach over to Aziraphale—hold his hand, wrap his arm around him, _something_ to remind, reaffirm that Aziraphale was there, safe and sound.

He’d even continued to stay with Aziraphale until the latter fell asleep, still left doors open and lights running in the hallways, and always comforted Aziraphale when he found himself waking from the throes of nightmares.

Or at least, Aziraphale thought he’d been having nightmares.

Because every now and then, he'd wake to Crowley holding him so tenderly and giving wind-whisper utterances of, _It’s all right angel, I’m here, I’ll protect you, I’ll take care of you._

* * *

_if your wish to be close me,i and_

_my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,_

* * *

It was that dreadful movie adaptation that did it.

Because Crowley suggested they stay in, get delivery, and watch a film for the night; because Crowley had ordered himself crêpes for dessert too with the unspoken understanding that they’re meant for Aziraphale; because a godawful movie adaption of Aziraphale’s better-favored books was offered on his streaming service; because he picked it apart just as enthusiastically as Aziraphale had from its truncated and patchwork plot to its wooden acting; because Aziraphale hadn’t known Crowley liked that author, only for the latter to admit that no, he didn’t, he preferred comedies to tragedies, but _Aziraphale_ did, so he read the book anyways—

And it was _all_ that dreadful movie’s fault that Aziraphale, for one, _damned_ second, thought it was entirely appropriate to close the distance between his mouth and Crowley’s.

It took all of three seconds for Aziraphale to remember himself—remember who he _was,_ just a _fussy,_ old bookseller _—_ and draw back. And Crowley—Crowley just sat there, mouth agape and a dreadful shock on his face that made Aziraphale’s nerves plummet and smash to the floor.

“Angel—”

Just as quickly, his mortification skyrocketed to his face and cheeks. “I—” _Did I misread him all along?_ “O-oh, dear me, uh. Please forgive that—I,” Aziraphale swallowed, eyes darting towards the quickest exit. “I should go—” And maybe if he was fast enough, the humiliation wouldn’t catch up to him.

Unfortunately, Crowley was fast enough to catch him instead. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled playfully, pinning him to Crowley’s fashionable, uncomfortable couch and now, Aziraphale was red-faced for a whole new slew of reasons. “Don’t play coy with me now, angel,” he purred. He made a show of crawling over Aziraphale, hands splaying on his thighs as those lovely, poisonous eyes took him in with wild hunger. “Do you have any idea how long you’ve kept me waiting?”

“I-I can take a guess?” was all Aziraphale could muster before Crowley crushed their lips to a kiss—if such a violent thing could be called that—and _ravaged_ him with animalistic fervor.

“Too long,” Aziraphale heard him say between bruising, biting kisses that left him short of breath and dizzy in all the right ways. “Too _bloody_ long.”

Then he was pulling away, allowing Aziraphale to catch his breath only to have said breath catch in his throat. “Crowley…” Aziraphale croaked, eyes soaking up the downright pornographic image of Crowley stripping off his jacket, his shirt, and—good _lord—_ his belt, and revealing expanses of lean, lithe muscle.

The very sight of him would have made Aziraphale self-conscious of his own soft body had it not been for the firebright flare of _want_ in Crowley’s eyes. He leaned down again, bringing his lips to the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. “Do you want this, angel?” he breathed, those long, slender fingers toying with the button of Aziraphale’s tenting pants. “Because I want you. I’ve wanted you for a very, _very_ long time.” He chuckled at the mortified whimper that left Aziraphale’s reddened mouth. “I’ve been _waiting_ for a very long time. Do you want this, love? Want me to take you and make you mine?”

Needless to say, it seemed that Aziraphale—and Anathema and Newt and Aziraphale’s favorite sushi-chef, and the sweet waitress at the corner café—was correct in his assumptions: Crowley had been indeed courting him. Courted for months with friendly banter, with expensive gifts, and dinner dates for months without complaint or expectation.

Patient, _patient_ Crowley…and now seemed as good a time as any to let him reap his reward.

 _“Yes.”_ Aziraphale thoroughly congratulated himself for not moaning out his answer as Crowley’s hand dipped further and began stroking him teasingly, reverently, rewardingly. Crowley didn’t even bother to mask the triumph in his eyes, soaking up the image of Aziraphale writhing in the palm of his hands.

Instead, he seemed to bask in it, savoring it, devouring the sight before him. “Let me take care of you, angel…” he murmured, planting teeth-sharp kisses to Aziraphale’s neck at the familiar vow. “Let me give you what you need,” he commanded with a claiming bite, the first damning link of a chain that had him collared to Crowley’s whim.

* * *

When Aziraphale awoke, he wasn’t quite sure what caused him to stir first:

Was it the streaming sunlight from the lavishly large windows? The piteous mewls of hunger in his stomach? Or perhaps it was the obnoxious heat of something pressed intimately to his naked skin.

Make that some _one_.

Aziraphale let one bleary eye open as he squinted against the late morning sun, uncomfortably awake and now uncomfortably warm from the heat Crowley radiated as he remained attached to his side. Make that _stubbornly_ attached to his side as Aziraphale had to wriggle and ease his way out of Crowley’s octopus-grab without rousing him awake.

All the while, Aziraphale tried not to panic— _desperately_ tried not to panic at the realization that he’d just _slept_ with Crowley after vehemently denying him for months now. Instead, he watched with almost-fondness blooming in his chest as Crowley seemed to search for him in his sleep, lips pulled to a frown at the empty spot beside his bed, only to be placated by crushing Aziraphale’s pillow to his chest.

 _Oh. Oh dear_.

The dread was back. This time, at his own thoughtless and baseless actions, and Aziraphale was desperately fighting down every instinct to simply jump out of the window and ignore the consequences. But that wouldn’t work. Not here.

(They were rather high up in this luxurious flat of Crowley’s.)

So instead, Aziraphale opted to—gather some distance from the situation. To stifle the gnawing panic and thoroughly _ignore_ the sea-sick and sinking feeling in his gut. He set off from the bedroom, cheeks flaming as he picked up article after article of clothing littering the floor, trailing from the living room to Crowley’s bed. He’d barely found his pants by the time he’d passed by a hall mirror, and Aziraphale yelped at the sight of himself after bending over to pick up his shirt.

There was a chain of love bites adorning his neck. Red-purple bruises, clear as day blooming against the pallor of his skin. He winced as he traced the constellation of bruises particularly concentrated around his well-healing scar.

It’s almost funny, in a not-so-funny way. It was like Crowley had collared him with such bold, fervent, claims. It certainly left little mystery as to what Aziraphale had been getting up to. And it wasn’t—it wasn’t what Aziraphale expected, that’s all. It wasn’t that Aziraphale inherently _disliked_ the attentions bestowed on to him—no, of course not. It was just something he wasn’t…particularly used to. Crowley was—and he feared his cheeks would be left permanently stained red at this—a _very_ attentive and enthusiastic lover, and Aziraphale hadn’t had anyone look at him like _that_ in years.

But also, Crowley—Crowley was the sweetest thing. Attentive, affectionate, amorous, and—to put it plainly, amazing in bed. He was gentle and lavished Aziraphale with languid, reassuring kisses before turning around and wringing out what was likely the most intense orgasm Aziraphale’s had in literal years. Over and over again, if memory served correctly.

He frowned as he traced the edge of a particularly…nasty looking bruise and—were those teeth marks on his neck? Aziraphale made a face _._ Yes, Crowley was a sweet thing— with a bit of a bite to him, as it were.

Buttoning up the shirt (while frowning at the lines of missing buttons from where Crowley had torn it off him last night), Aziraphale again half-entertained the idea of walking out those doors and out of this extravagant Mayfair flat instead and crawling back to his shop with his tail between his legs, but felt himself sickened with guilt at the very idea of it. So instead, Aziraphale found himself in Crowley’s sleek kitchen, pulling open drawers and wondering why on earth anyone would design a refrigerator to blend in with the cabinets.

A spot of breakfast would surely ease his worries. He’ll whip up something for (them? Was that too domestic at this point in their—whatever it is they have?) _himself,_ and maybe Crowley if he’s hungry, to take his mind off things. Surely…surely things would be all right.

(Right?)

He’d just successfully scavenged for some eggs and fished out some mugs for coffee and tea when a panicked scream tore throughout the apartment.

**_“AZIRAPHALE?!”_ **

He yelped, the cups slipping form his hands and shattering to the floor. “Oh— _fuck_!” Aziraphale sighed, putting a hand to his erratically-fluttering heart; he wasn’t sure if he was cursing himself for the blunder or the other man for scaring the daylights out of him. “I-I’m in the kitchen, Crowley!” he answered back, suddenly unsure if that was the right thing to do, before taking a towel to gather the shards scattered across the floor.

Crowley skidded to a halt at the entryway and the sight of him made Aziraphale raise a brow. He looked—well he’d look like he’d lost a child in a crowd from the harried look of terror in his eyes and the _“Angel!”_ that left his lips as he sighed in relief. It took Crowley a second before he caught sight of the broken remains of the mug and gave a chiding _tsk_. “No, no, don’t worry, I’ll clean it up,” and suddenly, Aziraphale found himself guided away from the broken pieces, Crowley ushering a, “Step carefully now.”

Aziraphale frowned, brow furrowed in confusion. “Are you all right, Crowley? You sounded so—”

His shoulders tensed; Aziraphale noticed that immediately. “I—what? Oh yeah, I’m fine. Just fine.” But then Crowley flashed him a smile, flirty and sly, and _there_ that saunter was, the sway of those hips as he backed and cornered Aziraphale to the edge of the counter. “So, why was it that I woke up so very alone in bed today?”

But at the panic he’d just witnessed, Aziraphale had an inkling it had more to do with masking whatever it was that terrified him in the first place. For now, Aziraphale kept that thought to himself. “Well I _was_ going to make— _us_ some breakfast—”

“Aren’t you precious?” he cooed, teasing, coy—such a jarring contrast to what he was like not one minute ago.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of it.

But then Crowley brushed his mouth over Aziraphale’s, light and mischievous, and what was a poor bookseller to do but buckle his knees at the ardent attentions of such a handsome lover? Crowley pulled away, lips hovering over his and daring Aziraphale to chase. “But…the fact that you’re up and about means I didn’t do too good a job wearing you out last night—”

Aziraphale felt himself flush at the insinuation. “Oh, hush you!” Still, he did little to stop Crowley from crowding him, pressing him ever-closer to the marble island and pinning him against the smooth surface.

“Come to bed, darling,” Crowley breathed, a demand more than a request. “There’s something sweeter I want to sink my teeth in…”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You did quite a bit of that last night,” he accused, tugging down the collar of his shirt down to the curve of his shoulder to let Crowley assess the damage for himself.

But instead, Aziraphale was met with a shameless smirk and a low whistle, Crowley looking quite pleased at his handiwork. “Now aren’t you the most _scrumptious_ thing I’ve ever laid eyes on…”

_“Crowley!”_

“None of that, angel.” He pressed a thumb down the bruise just above Aziraphale’s clavicle and ghosted a kiss over the bites lining Aziraphale’s throat. His eyes darkened and Aziraphale felt his breath hitch. “Let me have you again,” once more—a demand rather than a request. Aziraphale felt it as those fingers found his hips, grabbing the bruised and tender flesh there and bringing him to Crowley’s warm, wanting body.

And Crowley let him know just exactly what he wanted and how much he wanted it. “Insatiable thing,” Aziraphale hissed, scandalized, before Crowley ground his hips, the thick erection digging into Aziraphale’s side and making him stutter out a moan in response.

Crowley chuckled, eyes dancing with lust as he tugged Aziraphale towards the bedroom, the mess of broken things forgotten. “For you darling? Always.”

* * *

You can’t possibly blame Crowley for it.

Hips stuttering, he hissed as he staved off coming again, wrenching another wail from the soft, pliant angel beneath him. Poor, sweet thing, flushed pink from his chest to the lovely apples of his cheeks and looking up at Crowley with hazy, dizzied desperation for release. Crowley gave a chuckle and bent down to catch the moans slipping from those kiss-bitten lips.

 _“Crowley,”_ his angel whined, and what was Crowley to do but tease him further for such a _darling_ response?

“Mmm? What is it, angel?” he purred, pulling out almost completely and drawing another needy noise. A shudder raced down his spine at that and he had to stop himself from ramming back into his angel’s tight heat. “Tell me what you need.”

He wanted more. Wanted to see more of his angel and learn his body—what made him keen and cry out; what made him whimper and beg. But instead of another pitiful whine, he was met with a noise of impatience and exasperation. “Do get on with it, _dear fellow,_ ” he hissed with gritted teeth and Crowley felt his heart swell with so much love he thought it might burst right through the very cage of his ribs. As Aziraphale dug his pampered, manicured nails into Crowley’s back, he was sure that if it _did_ happen, he’d offer the pathetic, bleeding thing to Aziraphale regardless.

It was his from the start, after all.

Lifting a plush thigh and marveling at the fingertip-bruises scattered across the fair, fair flesh of his angel’s body, Crowley slammed home, drawing another wanton wail from his lover.

_Lover—_

The word sent Crowley into a frenzy. Every thrust was bordering on brutal, but from the mewls, squeals, and the leaking tip of his angel’s cock rubbing between their bellies, he knew his angel hardly minded. His angel was a glutton for pleasure and a little bit of pain was merely another spice to the entire feast Crowley was offering.

_He wants this, he wants me—me, me, memememe—_

_“Crowley!”_

Fuck. He almost came from that sweet voice alone. His angel was already his ruin—he’d known that from the very start. But now—now he could return the favor. He thumbed the leaking slit and savored the tortured scream that followed as he murmured binding oaths to his angel’s skin. “It’s all right angel, let go—come for me, love. I’ll make you feel good, yeah? I’ll take care of you—I’ll give you what you need.” He bit down as the pitches of his angel’s moans raised an octave, the rough texture of the scar against his angel’s smooth flesh between the points of his teeth.

Aziraphale came with a splendid shout, coating Crowley’s fingers and stomach, and _that—_ that utterly _wrecked_ look in those sea-storm eyes— was what tipped Crowley over the edge, spilling deep into his lover with low, guttural groan.

The sense of _completion_ that washed over him was like nothing else as he laid there, atop the plush, supple flesh of his lover. Try as Aziraphale might as he seized under him, trying to buck him off, crying out lovely, lovely curses at him, Crowley held firm and refused to let go until his cock softened. Only then did he pull out with a satisfied shiver, a perverse delight sparking in him at the sight of his spent leaking from between his lover’s thighs.

“You didn’t use a condom?” Aziraphale accused, breathless and bewildered. Exhaustion did nothing to mute the panic in his eyes.

“I’m clean, angel,” Crowley assured with a gentle smile. “I have a copy of my last physical if it makes you feel better.” It did; Crowley didn’t see it, but he could feel it in the way that Aziraphale went limp under him. Also from the way he extracted his finely manicured nails from clawing at Crowley’s back in retaliation.

“That would be…greatly appreciated, thank you,” he murmured, nuzzling into the silken sheets of Crowley’s bed like he was made for it.

And Crowley knew he was. 

Crowley leaned down, pressing a tender, loving kiss to his mouth before pulling away with great reluctance. “I’ll go fetch it then. Be right back, all right angel?”

Aziraphale gave an unintelligible reply, eyelids drooping and looking ready to doze after their romp, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to just relish in this moment, memorize the flutter of his eyelashes, the way his mouth parted with a noiseless sigh, the _sight_ of him in Crowley’s bed and bearing Crowley’s marks and Crowley’s cum leaking from the aftermath of their lovemaking—

How could you blame Crowley for it? _This_ —this was enough to remind him—ground him. _This_ was what he was fighting to keep.

But his angel had a request and see to it Crowley must. He’ll tend to the rest of his little errands some other time.

* * *

_nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals_

_the power of your intense fragility_

* * *

When Aziraphale awoke, he was alone.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how Crowley maintained the stamina he did. The randy thing seemed to take sadistic glee in wearing him out and leaving him a satiated, if not sticky, puddle of goo. It—it couldn’t have been age, could it? Aziraphale’s only a year or two older. Or maybe Aziraphale really _was_ getting soft—but he obviously wasn’t getting complaints from Crowley in that department either. Likely, however, it had more to do with Aziraphale’s body recovering from the trauma and crippling lack of rest he’d endured over the past few days, maybe even weeks.

Aziraphale sighed, luxuriating in the slide of silken sheets against his naked skin. Crowley had been gone for a while now, likely hunting down that physical he’d promised, and Aziraphale wanted to remain awake and alert for when he did come back, lest the entire ordeal be lost to another dreamless sleep. But even then, he found himself drifting away to the thresholds of slumber, this time without the waves of dread, but not without inklings of apprehension.

Because try as Crowley might—try as _Aziraphale_ might—the feelings ebbed in and out of the corners of his conscious. Something, lurking deep within his bones, can sense something amiss. Something…not quite right. Even as he laid there, the comforting smell of Crowley surrounding him, the tension never left his body. The nightmares may be gone, but he was sure some other strange, ominous, visions were taking its place, planting roots to a rotten foundation.

In that weightless state of mind, Aziraphale had a curious, horrible thought seed and take hold: a maybe-not-quite-a-nightmare, a maybe-not-quite-a-warning. He thought back to the nights where Crowley slipped into his bed and held him through the haunting and harrowing horrors when Aziraphale had no memory of such demons to begin with.

He wasn’t sure of that anymore.

Because who’s to say if he actually saw Crowley standing there in the corner of the room with splatters of red across his skin and clothes, or if it was all in his head?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Youthful love/ I fall victim."
> 
> To note, emergency contacts are very important, and in a real-life setting, Crowley definitely wouldn’t have cut it as his emergency contact if he was not registered as such. 
> 
> (Not unless Crowley lied and introduced himself as Aziraphale’s common-law husband, that is.)
> 
> (song verses of the chapter: _Promise I’ll be kind/ but I won’t stop until that boy is mine/ Baby you’ll be famous, chase you down until you love me_ – “Paparazzi,” Lady Gaga)


	3. Dionaea muscipula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the pair take a trip amidst the season of storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!
> 
> special thanks to @valnine on tumblr for (being best waifu) their spelling and formatting edits, @Itisnotaname on tumblr for their detailed notes on improvements for flow and readability for this chapter, and Naro Moreau on discord for their enthusiasm and overall thoughts on the themes and presentation of the story. You've all been a fantastic help and really helped me feel at ease about publishing this chapter!

* * *

_Spring opens_

_(touching skilfully,mysteriously)_

* * *

“How are you feeling?”

Aziraphale wanted to bark out a laugh. He was sure it would paint a more accurate, _vivid_ picture of just _how_ he was feeling— a crumpled, choked little sound, falling flat on the floor before shattering the quiet calm of the doctor’s office.

Instead he shook his head, giving a half-shrug as he straightened the lapels of his coat in a practiced motion. “Well. Thank you.”

It wasn’t quite a lie. Surely, he’d been feeling better than he had been previously. Not quite to normal—and some days Aziraphale wondered if he’d ever get back to _his_ normal—but this was fine. This was enough.

_(It had to be.)_

“Is the wound healing all right?” The physician asked as she walked over to observe the damage. She hummed in assessment as Aziraphale tilted his neck so she could get a better view. “Yes, that’s good; any tenderness, redness, or discharge from the area?”

Aziraphale flinched as a gloved hand prodded and palpated the ragged scar. “None.” It was a miracle his neck wasn’t tender and red in the first place.

 _What with Crowley and his bloody teeth…_ Aziraphale thought with a blush.

Well, that or his physician was simply too polite to say anything. “Excellent. I saw on your review of systems that you’ve declined experiencing any red flag signs of complications. That’s all very reassuring.”

Aziraphale nodded, unsure what he’d even marked in actuality. “Ah, yes. I think I’m getting along quite all right.”

She nodded as her eyes scanned the questionnaire. “You’ve checked off some changes in your sleep here…as well as changes in your appetite.”

“Err…well yes," Aziraphale conceded uneasily. "But that’s mostly resolved now, I’m doing a lot better.” This was fine. This was _enough_.

“That’s good to hear.” She didn’t sound like she believed him. She lifted her gaze from the paper with a curious brow. “How has your mood been lately?”

Aziraphale blinked. “My mood?”

“Yes. You were in quite a traumatic experience.” She folded her arms, looking to him with a mix of concern and quiet questioning. “It’s normal to have anxieties and nightmares after the fact.”

 _The nightmares—_ those came and went. Tides on the shore. “I…I suppose that is,” Aziraphale nodded in hesitant agreement. The anxieties, on the other hand, settled beneath his skin, permanently inked and tangled in his veins.

“It’s also important to know the extent of how it’s impacting your life.” A drop of dread slithered down Aziraphale’s belly as she clicked her pen and handed it to him. “I’d like you to answer some questions regarding this.”

“I…well…” Aziraphale looked down to the sheet of paper shoved in his direction. The physician looked back at him expectantly. “All right,” he conceded. 

* * *

She tallied the scores in the end and from the amount of 3s he circled, he was certain that it didn’t bode well for him. “From what you’ve answered here, it sounds like your trauma has made a significant impact on your mental health.”

“I can handle it,” he said, hurriedly _(defensively)_. “I’ve _been_ handling it.”

Her lips tugged to a frown, though the rest of her face remained neutral. “Mr. Fell, from what you’ve told me, as well as your scores on the depression and anxiety scales, I believe that you’d greatly benefit from counseling—”

_“No.”_

She paused, something shifting in her expression, something waiting. Aziraphale unconsciously unclenched his hand from where it fisted at his coat.

He supposed she wanted an elaboration. “I, err…no, I think I’m fine,” he said, voice mild, worn. Sadly, she wouldn’t get one.

Not from him. Not today.

“Then would you be interested in medication—”

“No, _no_ , that’s even worse— I _can’t_ —” Aziraphale swallowed back the cold wave of nausea that overtook him. “No. Just.” He fumbled for words, fumbled for wants, not willing to go through trial after trail and week after week for something that _might_ work. “Is there anything else?”

The physician opened her mouth, pausing as she thought over her response. There was the slightest look of hesitancy—of _doubt—_ flashing briefly over her eyes before she collected herself a split second later. She nodded. “I wouldn’t want to push you into seeking treatment that you’re vehemently against. I can recommend some relaxation techniques to help with your sleep and to cope with your racing thoughts and worries."

Aziraphale nodded along. That, he can do. Anything as noninvasive as possible would be good—

"A change in scenery might also be helpful to you as well.” Aziraphale startled at that. The physician looked over to him with soothing reassurance. “To gain some mental and physical distance between yourself and the incident, that is. Going back over and over again to check up on your bookshop is likely a large trigger for your anxiety.”

Aziraphale let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, having feared the worst. “Well…yes. I suppose.” He nodded along, turning the thought up and over, this way and which way. “I’ve been sleeping better now that I’ve started staying with a—” His heart stumbled in his chest, catching at his throat as the thought of Crowley and what this shift in dynamic meant. “A…friend,” he settled with uncertainty. 

Uncertain—he always felt uncertain. He never knew with Crowley. Never knew if his presence fed his comfort or his anxiety; if he gave him reassurance and courage, or apprehension and discomfort. Never knew if his dedicated attentions warmed his heart, or made it shudder with flighty panic. Not within the past week of housing him in his flat, not today when he waited with him in the reception, hand in his, and calmly talking him out of walking right out the doors—

Not when he first met the man, months ago, those golden eyes hidden away behind expensive sunglasses, his piercing gaze pinning him against his bookshop’s wall.

“That’s good. I’m glad you’ve been getting some support.” She turned back to the computer, tapping away at the keyboard. “Now more than anything, it’s important that you feel safe.”

At that, Aziraphale wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. Instead, he gave a weak, wilting smile as the doctor absently nodded in his vague direction.

“They say a little time and a little love can heal most anything.”

Aziraphale tried his damnest not to flinch. “I…I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale finished as her attention was diverted again. His attention did much the same.

He thought about Crowley, a morning coffee conversation days ago; of a villa in the countryside, a small retreat he’d been promised from the monsters gnawing at the edge of his dreams and the uneasiness that haunted his waking hours. “Some time away…some time away will be good,” he echoed back. 

_It’s funny_ , he thought, _how certain things fall into place._

* * *

It was with fatigued fugue that Aziraphale returned to Crowley (slouching fantastically in the waiting room chair) with the suggestion from his doctor. “She prescribed a vacation?” he asked with a crooked grin, something like _victory_ in his flash of his teeth, but one that Aziraphale himself could not refute.

“Yes, it seems so,” he replied coyly, a shy look holding Crowley’s gaze. 

A look that Crowley had long interpreted as a temptation well accomplished. “Well, lucky for you, I know just the place,” he assured with an air of suave confidence that Aziraphale couldn’t help but envy, but found heartening nevertheless.

It took all but an afternoon to collect and pack Aziraphale’s things from his own abode and bookshop; Crowley was in exceptionally good spirits and it was hard not to find his vigor infectious. He’d treated Aziraphale to his favorite bistro for lunch and the pair had a marvelous dinner in town to celebrate…progress. _Progress_ , they’d called it, with a clink of bubbly champagne and to Aziraphale, perhaps that’s what it ultimately was.

Progress in how Aziraphale no longer _(visibly)_ recoiled at Crowley’s hand over his own, progress in the happy flutter beneath his ribs as Crowley charmed and flirted with him all night, progress in how when Crowley impishly offered the same echoed temptation of something extravagant, something _exquisite_ back at his flat—

Aziraphale would only scoff, fighting down a pleased blush ( _a thrum of trepidation_ ) and allowed himself—for tonight, _at least_ for tonight— to forget, to pay no mind, to be whisked off into the night within that deathtrap of a Bentley, heart in his throat and suspense in his blood as Crowley laid a hand on his thigh.

They barely made it to the bed, months of wooing draining all of Crowley’s remaining patience as his teeth found Aziraphale’s pulse immediately and as his hands clawed off his finest clothes. And there, caged between Crowley’s lean body and the luxuriously soft mattress, Aziraphale found himself softly, lovingly ravaged until his cries and Crowley’s growls of pleasure spilled between them deep into the night.

Aziraphale slept in Crowley’s hold afterwards, as he’d done for a week since his hasty, impulsive kiss that left their relationship as entangled as their limbs beneath Crowley’s sheets.

He dreamt of blackened shores, the waters lapping at his feet while the waves crashed and crested over a stormy horizon. He stayed at the water’s edge, rooted, watching, waiting, unsure of what to do, where to go—eyes trained at the cataclysm looming ahead.

When he awoke, he swore he dreamt of Crowley.

* * *

_somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond_

_any experience_

* * *

They checked the bookshop one last time before peeling out of the city, even bidding farewell to Anathema and Newt in person of his whereabouts for the next few days (“Or weeks,” Crowley supplied with easy assurance, much to Anathema’s delight as he draped an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder). Crowley was even kind enough to offer his number should there be any emergency.

“We really ought to get you a mobile, angel,” Crowley teased, though without the usual insistence in his voice. 

“Oh hush, I’ve gotten along just fine without one, now haven’t I?” Aziraphale replied, the same song and dance between them since they met, during which Crowley had been adamant that Aziraphale _had_ a mobile, he just wasn’t ready to share his number with Crowley.

Aziraphale was quick to prove him wrong. “All right, love, all right,” he assented with little fuss.

The trip to the countryside proved more hazardous than Aziraphale would have liked. Their destination seemed impossibly far for it to take several hours, even with the speedometer’s needle twitching precariously as the Bentley blazed down the empty roads. Nevertheless, the further they fled from London, the apprehension gripping his heart seemed to ease. _This could work,_ he reminded himself. _This will be good for me._

Besides, it had been ages since he afforded himself a small getaway. More so, a getaway with a handsome lover.

Impossibly so, a getaway to said handsome lover’s countryside villa.

A flitter of nervousness kicked up in his gut and Aziraphale turned to face the blur of trees before Crowley could notice the blush on his cheeks—

_(the pallor on his face)_

_He must do this for all his lovers,_ Aziraphale decided. It wasn’t…he— _Crowley_ was a fine gentleman who knew how to treat his lovers well. And, with the advent of their budding relationship, it was only natural that the man wanted to shower Aziraphale with his affections, attentions, gifts, and grand gestures—

_(like he’d been doing for months now)_

A _honeymoon phase_ was what it all boiled down to, Aziraphale was sure, even as Crowley took a hand off the steering wheel to lace their fingers together. Crowley then chuckled mercilessly at the startled squeak it earned him. “I can hear you fussing up a storm there, angel.”

Aziraphale continued to avoid meeting his gaze. “I can assure you I was doing no such thing.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to jump out of a car going 90 miles an hour?”

“Why are you _going_ 90 miles an hour?!”

“So you _were_ thinking of jumping out—”

_“Watch the road!”_

Crowley sighed, finding his left hand empty and putting it back on the steering wheel to allow Aziraphale some much needed reprieve. He continued to look on straight ahead. “Do you want to head back? It’s not too late you know,” he soothed, voice calming and always so _damn_ dedicated to Aziraphale’s care and comforts.

Even then, the Bentley showed no signs of slowing.

Aziraphale felt the guilt settle uncomfortably in his stomach. “No…no, dear. It’s…I…” He sucked in a breath. “It’s not that. I do think leaving London for a short while will do me some good. And of course—I thank you for arranging all this. I’m very grateful, Crowley.” He smoothed down the lapels of his coat, fidgeting in his seat as he fought to form the words. “I’m just…not good at doing things outside of what I’m used to.”

_Outside of what I’m comfortable with._

And Crowley was _trying—_ he really was. And Aziraphale was forever grateful for his persistence, his patience, as Aziraphale meandered and dithered and lagged behind to meet him halfway.

Crowley saw that Aziraphale was _trying_ and Aziraphale could only hope that was enough. “Well…that’s part of the fun, right? Trying new things, new experiences, new memories and all that.” His voice sounded so hopeful and warm, nurturing the guilt where it rooted itself. “It’s all right to be scared too. That’s what I’m here for,” he promised and Aziraphale felt his heart thud noisily in his ears. “I’ll be with you. Don’t you fret, angel.”

“I…” Aziraphale looked down to his hand, not even realizing he had wrenched it away from Crowley’s hold. Crowley stared resolutely on ahead.

 _Don’t look so disappointed._ “Thank you, Crowley,” he forced out, edging his hand closer to the console. Crowley immediately snatched the opportunity, enclosing it in his own and squeezing tightly, reassuringly.

 _(Flytraps,_ Aziraphale thought in arbitrary.)

His hand was warm, too warm, fingers digging into his like he could brand Aziraphale with his touch alone. It did little to settle Aziraphale’s heart, did nothing to tip the balance between remorse and restive.

_You go too fast for me._

* * *

_your eyes have their silence_

* * *

Eventually, the trees lining the roads grew uniform and manicured, the gravel of the country road smoothed to an even glide beneath the Bentley, and even Crowley slowed to an appropriate speed limit.

Crowley took a turn and the fields faded to manicured lawns and gardens, tended to impartial, immaculate perfection.

“There it is,” Crowley said, brushing a thumb over Aziraphale’s pale knuckles. 

The villa was large, towering over the trees of the surrounding countryside. Acres of land stretched wide with cultivated care and Aziraphale couldn’t help but take it in with awe. He knew Crowley came from money. He never pried of course, and he’d tried not to think too much about just how much Crowley was spending on him and why it never seemed to bother him at all.

Now, as they approached the luxury French style villa, he had an answer.

Crowley parked right before the entrance and Aziraphale half-feared that awaiting staff would burst through the doors or jump out of the shrubbery. Thankfully, no such thing happened as Crowley opened the driver’s seat door, popped open the trunk, and exited to open Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale gave an absent smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes with his thoughts aswarm at the sight before him, but Crowley pulled him to a chaste kiss anyways.

With their respective luggage in hand, Crowley unlocked the villa's entrance, leaving Aziraphale to stare back into a still life. Drawn curtains over the glass windows painted the rooms in bleak greys, spilling the dreary light from the rain-heavy skies. Sleepy shadows swept silently across the floors when Aziraphale stepped inside; a cold, empty maw awaited him.

In stark contrast was the garden at the back, tunneling light from across the way, where Crowley meandered towards with natural grace against the dark. Abandoning the suitcase in one hand, he opened the French doors to the flourishing veranda and breathed out the stress from his shoulders. He stooped down to inspect an leaf from a vine-swathed trellis as Aziraphale stood idly by in the slumbering house, something in his chest thudding violently at the sight of Crowley and the garden, blooming verdantly despite the smothering summer rains and cloud-sapped sunlight.

* * *

The villa itself was well maintained and immaculately prepared for their arrival. The beds were made, linen washed, and everything from the floors to the countertops and sinks were polished to perfection. Even the fridge was well-stocked and the pair prepared themselves a light dinner with a fine, red wine to pair.

But even with the care that went into readying, tidying, and arranging the villa for its master and guest, inevitably, certain little details just slip through the cracks.

Aziraphale frowned at the flat tone against his ear and sighed as he set the phone down onto the receiver.

Crowley glanced over to him from where he lounged lazily on the sofa chaise, eyes lingering to where the phone rested. “Sorry love, looks like the phone lines need repairing.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said lightly. Just as well, it would probably do him some good to restrain himself from bombarding Anathema’s phone with his fretting. He’d have to call Anathema some other time. Seating himself beside Crowley, Aziraphale felt a flush rise to his cheeks as he felt those lean arms wrap around him.

In many ways and often times, he himself was still unused to Crowley’s easy affections—often catching him off-guard despite the continuous advances Crowley made, the unending show of genuine _desire_ to have Aziraphale with him and to make him happy. Here Crowley was, whisking him away to a countryside vacation home last-minute, cancelling all his plans and uprooting his schedule _for_ Aziraphale.

_(Thorns pierced his heart; the guilt digging deeper with its violent embrace.)_

And here he was, breathing a contented sigh against him, looking more at peace than Aziraphale had ever seen. The wrinkle between his brows smoothed, he laughed easier over their food and drink, and even abandoned his Valentino sunglasses there on the side table.

_(Crowley hadn’t liked taking them off; hadn’t liked the brilliant color of his eyes; hadn’t liked the uneasiness on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley would just stare and stare like a starving man before a feast.)_

It made Crowley look younger, somehow. More carefree. More relaxed. Aziraphale hummed as he carded his fingers through mussed red locks. He…ought to try more. For Crowley. For everything he’s done. And Aziraphale was a hoarder of knowledge—it seemed only right to know more of his companion, his friend, his…lover. “Did you come here often as a child?”

“Quite a bit.” Crowley nuzzled closer and Aziraphale took that as a good sign. “Once every other year ‘til I was grown, maybe? It was good when we wanted to get away from…” He trailed off. “Everything,” he said simply. 

_That_ was decidedly not a good sign. But Aziraphale had become rather good at ignoring those lately, a careless curiosity overcoming him. “What’s your family like, Crowley?” Aziraphale backtracked immediately as he felt Crowley stiffen. “Oh—if it’s, I mean—you don’t have to ans—”

“Crazy.” Crowley gave a bitter chuckle as he turned to face Aziraphale, half-lidded eyes in a faraway look, perhaps seeing ghosts from his past. “Ruthless bastards, all of them. Dear ol’ dad, especially.” Aziraphale felt his heart twinge in sympathy as he soothed Crowley’s back. “Only interested in one thing and one thing only. The rest of the world could burn for all they care.” He shrugged. “Not the best environment to grow up in.” 

“I’m so sorry, dear…” Aziraphale whispered, hesitating for a second—just a second—before pressing a kiss to the line that appeared at Crowley’s brow once more. Those lovely honey-golden eyes looked back at him with so much appreciation and awe that Aziraphale could only look away.

Crowley seemed undeterred, lacing their fingers together. He in turn pressed his lips against the back of Aziraphale’s palm. “S’all right. As I got older, I tried to be everything they weren’t. Branch out, be my own man, forge my own stars, you know…” Aziraphale could only imagine: a lonely, sad little Crowley— _Anthony_ he would have been called then— lashing out at his family, at their expectations after years of only seeking their love and attention. Changing his hair, wearing garish clothes, riding fast and expensive cars—

Well, maybe some things _haven’t_ changed.

“Brash, young thing I was,” he muttered with a frown. 

“You still are, dear,” Aziraphale chuckled, squeezing his hand. “And…it’s good that you chose this for yourself. That you walk your own path. It made you into the man you are today. A man I’m…thankful to have met.” He gave him a fond smile back, a nervous warmth in his chest at the sweetly surprised look on Crowley’s face. “And I can’t say I’ve met anyone else quite like you.”

And when it came down to it, Crowley was _trying._ He was a sweet man with an obvious chip on his shoulder and an upbringing that must have been terribly difficult to endure. He seemed dangerous, exuded the energy and aura of someone not to be tested, but…he’d shown Aziraphale nothing but kindness, nothing but care and consideration for this fussy old bookseller.

And what had Aziraphale done?

Kept him at arm’s length for months over some silly— _paranoia_ , some unfounded accusations to his character.

Well…no more. He’d try. He’d try his _damnest_ to put those acrid apprehensions away for good.

“And to me, angel…” Crowley gave his own brazen smile. _“You will be unique in all the world.”_

Aziraphale raised a brow, the edges of his smile betraying an oncoming giggle. _“Le Petit Prince?”_

“A classic,” Crowley boasted airily. “One of _my_ favorites—yours too, I hope?”

“But of course,” he scoffed. It’s no _Winnie the Pooh_ , but a lovely read nevertheless. One that he couldn’t picture, even a younger Crowley, indulging in. The thought made him smile. “You’re…never quite what I expect,” Aziraphale mused.

Crowley gave a disarmingly flirty grin in return. _“When a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey.”_

Aziraphale sputtered, barely holding back a laugh. “ _Please_ do not debauch classic children’s literature for your personal gain.”

“Then give me something else to debauch,” he murmured, leaning in for a kiss as Aziraphale made a (teasingly) affronted gasp. “Ah yes, you’ll do nicely,” Crowley purred, squeezing Aziraphale’s generous backside as his lips marked up the column of his lover’s throat.

_“Crowley!”_

* * *

It was some hours after Aziraphale drifted off to slumber; some hours after thunder rolled through the skies. Crowley laid with Aziraphale nestled against him on the sofa, their clothes strewn on the floor, a thick throw over them for warmth and modesty. Crowley wanted to remember this moment, memorize this calm, entomb this perfect eternity to heart and memory before the storms made landfall.

“I didn’t understand them,” Crowley murmured into the dark. “For the longest time, I couldn’t see why they did what they did,” he sighed, running a hand down Aziraphale’s chest, mesmerized by the soft rhythm, the rise and falls.

Crowley’s own was beating violently, monstrous and wild behind the cage of his ribs. He kissed the scar marring Aziraphale’s lovely neck, tenderly, reverently, in apology. _“But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart…”_

Aziraphale stirred—

_(Had he really been asleep?)_

— the flashes of looming lightning illuminating the gales in his eyes. “Crowley…?”

“Shhh…” he soothed, holding the other tight. “It’s all right, Aziraphale,” he consoled as the winds howled at the rains crashed against the windows. _“Let me love you, let me take care of you…”_

Silence. Aziraphale drifted back to slumber, the lullaby of tempests easing him back to dreams. All the while, Crowley crooned a wordless melody, knowing he’d be awake for several more hours as his heart paced restlessly behind its cage.

Aziraphale dreamt of bloodied flowers. Blackened seas raging, thorns with blooming, red petals cresting through the waves.

* * *

_the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses_

* * *

The first few days were spent establishing a routine. Aziraphale was well aware of Crowley’s green thumb and so afternoons were spent under the shade of wayward clouds, canopies of leaves, and garden gazebos as Crowley (sometimes quite literally) whipped the plants into shape. He himself sipped tea and tried to focus on his reading rather than eyeing the handsome flush on Crowley’s face or the bead of sweat on his brow.

(It didn’t matter whether Crowley caught him looking or not; he only had to spot the peony pinks blooming across Aziraphale’s cheeks. Crowley certainly had no compunctions about ravishing Aziraphale where he stood and Aziraphale himself welcomed the insatiable, romantic fervor that sparked between them on those rosy summer afternoons.)

Rainy days were spent within the villa’s cold walls, trading hazy memories, exchanging kisses, and sharing skin beneath the thick throw until the hours grew weary and the night blossomed.

Distant booms bellowed through the sky and flashes of light gave way to shadows.

.

“Do you think the shop’s all right?”

“Very sure, angel.”

.

The first few nights at the villa were…distressing, to say the least; Aziraphale tossed and turned and it was a miracle that Crowley could sleep through it all, what with his gangly limbs thrown over Aziraphale’s form. Some nights Crowley offered to “tire” him out before bed (to which Aziraphale would sputter and do very little else when Crowley made good on that offer), but on restless nights, not even a glass of wine and a read through Dostoyevsky could distract his anxious thoughts.

Crowley held him close then, plucking the book and downing the rest of the glasses away, settling Aziraphale down in the silent dark, pressed heartbeat to heartbeat until the tandem tempo was etched into his thoughts.

Aziraphale eventually stopped fidgeting.

Aziraphale still found it hard to sleep.

Because even as the nightmares faded to hazy memories, even through the oaths he’d sealed with resolve and resolution, and even through gratitude in his heart for Crowley—

There was a burning in his blood—marrow-deep and atom-tiny—to _run, get out the door, don’t look back, **never** look back— _that pounded even louder as Crowley tightened his hold.

In the wake of morning after nights like those, he vowed to make it up to Crowley. He’d hold his hand, sit closer by him, allow Crowley to drag him this way and that way through the gardens, through the scenic sights and charming towns nearby. He’d tell him little secrets he’d squirreled away and swore to never unearth and kissed him tenderly, reverently, in apology.

.

“No messages from Anathema?”

“No news is good news, angel.”

.

Sunny days found Crowley taking Aziraphale to a sleepy little town about a twenty minute drive from the villa; it was home to some quaint cafes and bakeries that Crowley was eager to acquaint Aziraphale with, and little daytrip activities to soothe the thrum of anxiety in his chest and settle the disquiet in his thoughts .

There would be walks in the park _(hand-in-hand)_ , lunch and dinner at the restaurants _(fingers interlocked)_ , a play at the local theater _(an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder)_ , and even a picnic over by a quiet hilltop—

_(To which Aziraphale was grateful for the scarce visitors as Crowley laid him on the picnic blanket to have his wicked, publicly indecent, way with him.)_

And—and it was _wonderful_ to feel so _wanted_ and _desired_ and to have Crowley looked at him like he was something _precious,_ something _lovely_ to covet and to _hoard_ and _hide away_ all for himself—

 _It will pass_ , Aziraphale knew.

_(He hoped.)_

.

“You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should get a mobile…”

“Welcome to the 21st century, angel.” Crowley’s teasing was light—doubtful, but placating. “We’ll get one for you once we get back.”

.

Rain pelted the windows and Aziraphale lost all motivation to concentrate. “It’s been about two weeks now…say, Crowley, may I use your mobile to call Anathema?” After a moment of silence, Aziraphale swiveled over from his perch on the luxurious sitting room chair to where Crowley laid, sleepily sprawled over on the couch. “I mean, I just want to make sure…” he added as Crowley gazed back at him blankly.

He sat up, breathing out a noisy sigh. “ _Angel_ ,” he tsk’d. “What did I say? You worry too much. If anything happened, I’m sure she or that sweaty boyfriend of hers would give a ring.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but I just…want to check in. It’s been two weeks, after all.” Aziraphale reasoned with a roll his eyes. “And _hush_ , he’s a lovely young man—just a little nervous is all.”

“Whatever you say, angel,” Crowley muttered, tossing him the phone. “Here.”

Aziraphale dropped the book on his lap to save the fragile thing from meeting its demise, glaring over at Crowley who at least had the decency to navigate him to the calling application.

 _He must be in quite a mood today,_ Aziraphale thought. Probably stir-crazy after two weeks here with nothing but Aziraphale’s stuffy company.

 _All the more reason to call and have an excuse to get back,_ he mused but not without a stirring of that guilt eating away at him. Nevertheless, he pressed in the numbers and watched the screen light up to connect.

Nothing.

Aziraphale frowned. “It reads that the call’s not going through.” 

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe they’re busy?” Aziraphale tamped down the immediate annoyance that bubbled up within him at the dismissal. “Or maybe the signal has trouble getting through. The rain’s coming down pretty hard, after all.”

Aziraphale frowned, finding it hard to not be disappointed as he looked back at the mobile helplessly. “Maybe…” Something flashed across the screen, something about a _missing SIM—_

“Don’t fret, angel.” Crowley plucked it from his hands and pocketed the phone. “I’m sure everything’s right as...well, rain.” He gave a sympathetic smile, immediately absolving his terse demeanor. “I’ll get started on dinner. Some food will keep your mind off things.”

Aziraphale gave a weak nod, gave another wan smile, fragile as the eggshells he walked on as Crowley turned away without another word.

Storm clouds gathered.

.

“Three weeks here…I can hardly believe it.”

Crowley hummed, contentedly, dismissively. “Time sure flies.”

.

 _It’s just a phase. Don’t get ahead of yourself, you foolish old thing— someone shiny and new will come along soon enough so just—just_ enjoy _it while you can._

A love that burned this fast, this brightly, could only peter out to ashes. It would be fleeting, Aziraphale was sure.

All summers were.

Aziraphale focused on the wordless tune Crowley hummed as they walked through the bustling walkways, the pair en route to a small bookstore to replenish Aziraphale’s dwindling stock; arm-in-arm, side by side, Crowley guiding, shepherding him further and further down the winding path.

The days were lonelier with Crowley, somehow. Lonelier with the burning intensity behind the ardent affections, the avid adoration in Crowley’s gaze, his touch, his love, thorns marking him inside and out.

_(Lonelier with every dodged attempt at making a call, lonelier with every evasion by locals when Aziraphale tried to get to know them, tried to enter their establishments without Crowley attached to his side, tried to ring Anathema with Crowley’s back turned.)_

_It will pass,_ he reminded himself, a tightness easing beneath his ribs at the traitorous hope, a silver lining just a bit further from reach.

.

“The weather report says there’s a downpour in London right now.”

Crowley looked at him like he was a silly little thing, a parent needing to remind their child: “But the sun is shining right here.”

.

.

.

The fact of the matter was— Crowley was _trying_.

And Aziraphale was skittish. Poor thing always had been, since the very moment Crowley walked into the dusty shop and had cornered him from behind a bookshelf like a trapped animal, the startled thing almost shrinking down upon himself as he lowered the tome, lowering his shields, lowering his defenses abruptly _(foolishly)_.

He greeted Crowley with a perfectly polite _Oh, hello!_ with a mild voice but with a body language that immediately betrayed his unnerve.

Crowley wanted him immediately.

It was easy enough, he told himself, that Aziraphale merely needed _time_ to adjust to the easy affections that Crowley was more than happy to provide. _Time_ would shift that practiced unease to something like delight, something like joy at Crowley’s presence, something like anticipation rather than the raw apprehension in those gleaming sea-storm eyes whenever he’d look up from his book to Crowley looming over him with a kind, patient, practiced smile. The little gifts, the extravagant dinners, he thought would certainly aid in that; a crude Pavlovian response that worked to Crowley’s favor as he slowly, _ever-so_ slowly chipped away at Aziraphale’s nervous, _fear_ -driven defenses.

Because when it came down to it—that’s what it was.

Wasn’t it?

When Crowley moved towards him, Aziraphale instinctively scurried away, one step forward, two steps back. A bitter song and dance, out of rhythm and out of tune as every spectacular night spent basking in the angel’s company ended with the same stuttered stammerings, the same resolute rejections, the same pie-crust promises of _Perhaps next time?_ that left Crowley with an empty bed and a growing hunger.

Well…it was really no matter.

The act of wooing one Aziraphale Zacharias Fell could very well be a Sisyphean task, one that Crowley had been condemned to from the start the moment he’d laid eyes on him and realized he’d never wanted to be without this indecisive, infuriating, impossible, imperfectly lovely creature.

So the fact of the matter was—Crowley was _trying_ and trying his _damnest_ but even _this_ —this perpetual purgatory of friendship and _something else—_ was enough to tide him over, to quell the disquiet in his head and ease the thorns burning and branding his heart. Having Aziraphale there, almost close enough to touch, close enough to sink his fingers, his _claws_ and _fangs_ into and never let go—

But instead Crowley gripped the edges of the table, the steering wheel of his beloved Bentley, digging into the palms of his own hands until his knuckles turned white.

It was enough. It had to be.

Until _that_ night’s events. The night that nearly ripped Aziraphale clean from his grasp.

It was then that Crowley had to face a multitude of truths. One, being that he’d been _lying_ to himself. It was never enough. Not when gluttonous greed yielded to none as Crowley’s very being longed and lusted to be as close to Aziraphale as possible—until the spaces between them were barely enough room for thought, for breath, atom-tiny and inescapable.

Two, being that nothing was promised. Absolutely _nothing_. He thought of this as he sat by Aziraphale’s pale, ashen body as the monitors beeped in reassuring rhythms. Thought of this as he dropped Aziraphale off to his shop after his discharge and lingered at the store for hours and lurked out by the streets for hours more. Thought of this as he curled himself around the soft, pliant body, here, _finally_ , as he dug teeth and thorns to mark Aziraphale as his own.

Now wasn’t the time to dawdle. Now was the time to _plan_.

Clouds swirled overhead, thunder rumbling through the skies heralding the season of storms.

.

.

.

“Crowley…?”

“Yes, angel?”

“…nothing.”

* * *

_nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands_

* * *

It was a month and three days since their arrival and a week after Aziraphale discovered that his wallet with his ID, cash, and his bank cards were _nowhere_ to be found when he finally asked:

“Crowley…when are we—” He stopped with his heart in his throat and desperation, _panic_ in his blood as he waited for Crowley to meet his eyes. Golden, gleaming, almost _unnatural_ against the greys of the heavy skies, belying a practiced patience.

_Patient, always patient._

From the very start. “Crowley, are we _ever_ going back to London?” he finally said, the question—demand—fracturing at the edges, the break in his voice mirroring the shatter of his glass-thin patience, the final, frayed string of tension snapping as _certain_ things finally fell into place.

He wanted to go _home._ To _London._ To his bookshop, to read his books, to go to St. James Park, to eat at his favorite Japanese restaurant, for _him_ to return to his modest apartment, and for _Crowley_ to go back to his flat in Mayfair—

But Crowley didn’t look surprised; didn’t look offended by the way Aziraphale blurted it out like a dam of frustration and suspicion had culminated enough violent waters to finally burst.

Instead the penny finally dropped, sinking into the turbulent torrents with just enough pressure for the floodgates to open when Crowley raised a fine brow, a mirthless smile on his lips, a cataclysm of cyclones, with just these words: 

"Oh angel...why would I ever do that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “caught at last”
> 
> The questionnaires used in Aziraphale’s doctor visit are known as the GAD-7 for generalized anxiety, and the PHQ-9 for depression.
> 
> Song verses for this chapter: “Are you ready for/ A perfect storm/ ‘cause once you’re mine/ There’s no going back.” – _Dark Horse,_ Katy Perry
> 
> Hopefully this was worth the wait~

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over at tumblr @new-endings, come say hi if you'd like!


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